The Smoking Room  A Modern AU Merlin Fanfiction
by NurseRandall
Summary: When a mysterious stranger enters the smoking room of the Albion Gentlemen's Club Lancelot Dulac has no idea just how much he will change his life...


**The Smoking Room**

The smoking room of the Albion Gentleman's club was empty except for one man. Lancelot Dulac sat alone, puffing on a Cuban cigar, a near empty glass of whiskey in his hand, thinking about everything and yet nothing at the same time. It had been a tough day, filled with difficult decisions and disastrous news about share prices. Now all he wanted to do was sit back in his favourite chair in the club house, smoke a few cigars, drink his whiskey and listen to the mellow tones of the smooth classical music that drifted across the smoke filled room to his ears from the club's sound system. He sighed deeply and loosened his tie, closing his eyes as he felt the days stresses seep out of him. His meditation was disturbed as the door of the smoking room opened. Lancelot peered through one eye, checking to make sure it was not some other employee of the company who would undoubtedly want to disturb his down time by talking shop.

The man who entered the club, was not, however a fellow employee of the company. He was, in fact, completely unknown to him. Tall with dark chiselled features and brown hair which fell to his shoulders in neat waves, he was dressed sharply in a designer suit, his ties hanging loosely around his neck. Lancelot sat up straight and opened both eyes, watching the man as he descended the steps into the smoking room and took a seat in the farthest corner from himself. He ran a hand through his hair, sweeping its thick glossy mass away from his prominent brow before lighting up a cigarette and signalling for the waiter to bring him a drink. After a moment or two Lancelot closed his eyes again, satisfied he would not be disturbed, and returned to his own thoughts allowing himself to be swept away by the music once more. He was pulled from his reverie for the second time that evening by the waiter clearing his throat loudly above him. Slowly, Lancelot opened his eyes, a frowned etched across his brow. He looked at the waiter questioningly who, by way of reply, simply set a glass down in front of him.

"Your whiskey, sir." He spoke in a heavy French accent, so stereotypical Lancelot was certain it had been introduced as part of his training for the job.

"I didn't order any whiskey, thank you." He said curtly before closing his eyes again.

"No sir, you deed not, but 'ee deed." The waiter jerked his head towards the man in the corner who was now listlessly surveying a copy of the Financial Times. Lancelot blinked a couple of times before nodding to the waiter and sending him away. Once the waiter had left the strange man folded his paper, tucked it under his arm and walked to Lancelot's table.

"Gwaine." He said simply, offering him his hand. Lancelot shook it firmly, the way he would when greeting a business partner.

"Dulac, Lancelot Dulac." He said, cringing as he realised just how ridiculously James Bond he sounded. He offered Gwaine a chair. "Thank you for the drink." He added politely.

"Relax," Gwaine said, taking the seat with a smile. "I'm not here to talk business, you can drop the formalities." He spoke with a thick, rich Irish accent which, Lancelot noticed, melded wonderfully with the concerto playing in the background. He smiled and dropped his shoulders.

"Well that's a relief! Why _did _you buy me this then?" He held up the glass of whiskey to his nose and inhaled deeply its well-aged aroma. "Not that I'm not grateful of course." Gwaine shrugged.

"Your glass was empty and you seemed too deeply involved with Rachmaninov to order yourself another." Lancelot nodded with satisfaction and took a sip of the drink.

"It's been a hard day."

"I'm not surprised with the prices of stocks the way they are at the moment." He tapped the paper which he had laid on the table. Lancelot grunted, remembering the pile of paperwork which awaited his attention when he returned to work the next morning.

"What's your line of work?" He asked, wishing to steer the conversation away from himself. Gwaine responded by reaching inside his jacket pocket and producing his business card, which he slid across the table before lighting another cigarette with a match.

"Gwaine Caerleon, Caerleon and Son: Accountants." Lancelot read aloud then looked at Gwaine, impressed. Gwaine turned his eyes to Lancelot and shook out the match. "And son?" He read again, this time questioning. Gwaine shook his head and took a drag of his cigarette.

"It was my father's business. I'm the 'and son'. I'm not married." He added, as though that had been part of the question.

"I see," Lancelot said, then gestured to the card. "Do you mind? I might be able to use a good accountant." Gwaine chuckled, making the cigarette quiver between his lips.

"Then you should probably find someone else. Caerleon and Son's currently loses about £18,000 a year. Accounting was really my father's dream. But by all means do." Lancelot pocketed the card then handed Gwaine his own without being asked.

"Ban Corportation?" He questioned, after reading the card. "That's a big company!" He slipped the card inside his jacket. Lancelot smiled.

"And I'm a small fish." He stiffened again at the mention of work and took a sip of his whiskey.

"Listen, you've got me talking shop! I said I didn't want to do that!" Gwaine said. Sensing Lancelot's unease he changed the subject.

They talked late into the night about anything and everything but work until at last the waiter hovered impatiently by their table, clearly wishing to close up.

"I suppose we should leave?" Lancelot said, surprising himself at the tone of disappointment which filled his voice.

"I suppose so," Said Gwaine, standing and taking a clip of money from inside his jacket. Lancelot moved to stop his as he placed enough notes on the table to cover both their drinks for the evening, but Gwaine shook his head. "No, really, let me. You allowed me to disturb your evening after all." Lancelot shrugged.

"You don't have to… I mean, the company was kind of nice." Gwaine grinned but did not remove the money so Lancelot had little choice but to accept his generosity and follow him to the door. "Well…" He said, feeling slightly uncomfortable all of a sudden. "Goodnight then." He held out a hand which Gwaine shook once before bidding him good night and turning down the street in the opposite direction to Lancelot.

The next night Lancelot arrived at the club and was surprised, though not in the least disappointed, to see two glasses of whiskey on his table and Gwaine, waiting for him with a smile in the same chair he had been in the night before. These meetings continued each night for some weeks. Some nights they would slip into discussions about their day, work problems and office politics but most often they would just discuss their interests, talking for hours about the most unrelated things like sports, literature or music (Lancelot was a fan of the classical composers while Gwaine preferred smooth jazz) but always the conversation would flow, almost unbroken, until late in the evening when the waiter would cluck his tongue in frustration and look pointedly at his watch.

Lancelot more and more found himself looking forward to their meetings, which had now become something of an unofficial ritual. In fact a number of times he suspected he was going to work with the sole purpose of visiting the club in the evening and spending time with Gwaine. He could neither explain nor understand it but during the days when he was faced with a particularly daunting meeting or when he had a tough report to write he would find himself staring at the clock and thinking "only four hours to go!" And this thought would be enough to get him through even the most difficult of things.

The pair continued on in this same vain for many weeks until one night. Gwaine had just been discussing the virtues of Thomas Hardy (much to Lancelot's chagrin, who far preferred the works of Austen) when the waiter performed his usual routine of locking up the bar and doors around them then standing by the back exit, sighing loudly and tapping his foot by the back door. As normal Gwaine and Lancelot stood and exited together into the cool night. The fresh air made Lancelot's head swim. He turned to Gwaine who stood with his hand outstretched, ready to make their usual goodbye. Lancelot took it and shook but did not let go. He found himself looking at Gwaine, unable to take his eyes off him. The two men stood there in the dark alleyway behind the Albion Gentleman's club, hands clasped and staring at each other, neither one wanting to move away. Lancelot wondered how he had never noticed the exact shade of Gwaine's eyes before or how high his cheekbones were or the fullness of his lips. Without thinking he stepped forward and pressed his mouth against Gwaine's. At first Gwaine did nothing, then he too was leaning into the kiss. His mouth opened slightly and Lancelot ran his tongue over Gwaine's, savouring the way he tasted, a mixture of 13 year aged whiskey and Malborough cigarettes. Suddenly Gwaine pushed Lancelot up against the wall of the Albion, kissing him ferociously, their bodies pressed tightly against each other. Lancelot ran the fingers of one of his hands through Gwaine's hair and gripped tightly, pushing their mouths yet more firmly together. His free hand found Gwaine's and their fingers laced together, clasping tightly by their hips until Gwaine lifted them and held Lancelot's hand firmly against the wall too causing a small moan to escape from his mouth. It was as though the sound has acted as some kind of trigger in Gwaine's head. Suddenly he wrenched himself away from Lancelot, his hand unlacing from the other mans and flying to his own lips instead, a look of horror etched on his face. Lancelot opened his mouth to speak but before the words could form Gwaine had turned on his heel and fled the alleyway, leaving the confused Lancelot alone, his back still firmly pressed against the wall of the Albion.

There was an uncomfortable knot tied in Lancelot's stomach throughout work all the next day. He watched the clock with mounting frustration as the seconds crawled by. Time seemed to be moving so slowly that once or twice he even got up to check the clock hadn't suddenly stopped working halfway through the day. Finally 6 o'clock hit and Lancelot, rather than staying behind in the office to tie up any loose ends as he usually would, switched off his computer and bolted out of the door, running full pelt in the direction of the Albion. He stopped just short of the doors to the smoking room and ran through in his head the speech he had been mentally preparing all day instead of doing work. Slowly he pushed open the door, a glimmer of excitement flaring in his chest. The glimmer was quickly extinguished as Lancelot stared into the empty room. Dejected, he took his usual seat, ordered two whiskeys and waited. Hours passed, the ice in Gwaine's untouched drink had all but melted when the waiter came to him.

"Eez your friend not joineeng you tonight sir?" He asked in his exaggerated French accent. Lancelot shook his head.

"I guess not." The waiter raised his eyebrows but decided to press the issue no more.

"I see… More whiskey sir?" Lancelot shook his head again and stood throwing some money for the drinks down on the table.

"No, thank you. I should go home." He hesitated a moment longer before finally accepting that Gwaine would not be showing tonight and leaving the club.

Lancelot returned again the following night and once more he found the smoking room empty and again the night after that was the same. For about a week he continued to come to the club and sit alone in his usual chair, at first he continued to order two drinks in the hope that Gwaine would come, but gradually the glimmer of hope that he felt every time he entered the Albion faded until it was all but gone. He sat, alone again, in his favourite chair nursing just one drink and trying to absorb himself in the music again (Rossini tonight). He closed his eyes trying to filter out the outside world but his mind never quite cleared of thoughts of Gwaine. With a sigh he placed a cigar between his lips and fumbled inside his pocket for a lighter. There was a vague smell of sulphur and the sound of a match lighting by him. He felt the warmth of a flame near his face.

"Need a light?" A rich Irish accent sounded from right beside him. Lancelot opened his eyes and leant forward to light his cigar on the flame. He looked up at Gwaine who shook out the match and took a seat, not meeting Lancelot's eyes.

"I'm sorry." He said simply and chanced a glimpse in Lancelot's direction. His eyes shone beautifully in the low light of the club. Lancelot slipped a hand slowly under the table and squeezed Gwaine's knee.

"It's ok… I'm glad you came back." Gwaine smiled and Lancelot felt his hand slide on top his own, their fingers laced together. He stared at Gwaine for a moment longer before taking a drag from his cigar and ordering two whiskey's from the bar.


End file.
